Under The Water
by ReosAme
Summary: Danae is a 21 year old nomad with baggage. Having seen her father murdered, she's a changed person. She bounces from state to state, barely staying alive. But after a close call in a car wreck, she finds absolution in the Harvelle Roadhouse. Through Ellen and Jo, she learns the true feeling of family, as well as a few family trades, which begins Danae's journey as a Hunter.
1. Prologue: Under the Water

Prologue: Under The Water

The lightning outside shook me awake that night. The storm had been raging through the small Florida town all day. But being nine years old, it was natural for me to be afraid. I remember clutching my Mickey Mouse plush, hiding under my princess patterned sheets and trembling in anticipation of the next boom from the boisterous sky.

As expected, the sky lit up and blew another wave of sound to the earth, shocking me out of my bed.

"Daddy is just downstairs in the office" I told myself, and I sprinted downstairs as fast as my footie pajamas would let me, careening off the steps with pitifully attempted finesse.

I shuffled down the adjoining hallway in the kitchen that led to his office, Mickey Mouse in tow. The distant sounds of rain and thunder almost masked and blended with the sound of his typewriter. He was working on the fifth and final book in his fantasy adventure novel series. And every once in a while, he would forget the world, losing himself in his work. But my Daddy never forgot me. Because in his eyes, I wasn't his world, but his universe.

When I eased the door open, the typing stopped. I can still see his goofy smile, his disheveled and shaggy salt-n-pepper colored hair, and his slightly aged eyes, gleaming and happy. He simply chuckled, and wagged a finger at me, having busted me out of bed after my bedtime. He was never mad, because it was storming. And I had never liked storms.

He pushed his chair back and beckoned me over, cooing reassurances and kind words to me. Scrambling into his lap, I felt immeadiately safer. Little did I know, it would be the last time I felt that safe, or even saw my father alive for that matter.


	2. Chapter 1: Runaways and Regiments

Chapter 1: Runaways and Regiments

The door bell chimes from the front of the store. I dread the sound so much, I hear the bell in my sleep. Though really, it's not the only thing that haunts my dreams.

"Hi, welcome to Subway," I call with false cheer from the back of the store, gritting my teeth.

'Another busy day, all by my damn self, and no one can come in... Fucking wonderful...' I seethe internally, scrubbing the last bread pan in the sink.

After setting it up to dry, I force a smile onto my face, and march out to the counter.

"What can I get for you today?" I ask sweetly, not looking up as I pull on a pair of disposable plastic gloves.

"Danae. We need to talk," a gruff voice speaks from the other side of the bain.

My heart drops to my stomach as I look up to see my boss, Harold. His grey eyes practically glow with malice, as does his balding scalp and greasy face.

"Well, I suppose this was gonna happen eventually," I sigh defeatedly, and walk over to the door to open it for him. He steps in, brushing against my shoulder, sending a chill through me.

I knew I'd never keep this job. I've never been able to keep one over the past 4 years, and before that, I was just a petty thief. And now, the day has come when my eighth boss will cut me loose.

"What can I do for you Harold?" I say blankly, and rest my hip against the prep table, my arms immediately crossing, putting me in a careless stance.

"I'm here to take over your shift. You're being terminated."

I roll my eyes and nod.

"Should I even bother asking why?"

"You know damn well why! The drawer is always short, product comes up missing, you are consistently late, and to top it off you-"

"Kay. Nice chatting with you Harold," I grumble, and snatch my purse off the table.

"Danae, we aren't finished here!" he yells, following me to the lobby and pausing by the door, his tall, pudgy build eating the frame.

I turn slightly as I walk to the door and shoot him a fiery glare.

"Yes, Harry dear. We are."

I storm out the door, the accursed bell chime going off for the last time. I whip my visor off and shake my reddish brown hair out, the waves falling across my shoulders carelessly. I toss the wretched hat into a trash can on the sidewalk, letting my feet carry me to my beat up Durango at a brisk pace.

I hop into my car, slam the door shut, and fish my keys out of my purse. My eagerness to flee gives my blood stream a heavy burst of adrenaline, making my hands shake as I fumble to get the key into the ignition.

Within mere seconds, I have the car started and racing onto the road. Horns blare behind me, but I keep going, sending back my interpretation of a friendly farewell.

My head starts to rattle with worries as I blow through a red light. What am I gonna do now? How will I pay my bills? Where am I gonna go? I shake my head slightly, cutting my thoughts short. I hang a hard right onto my street and slow down a bit, aiming the car for my house, at the end of the cul de sac.

My mind is blank as I whip into my driveway. I slam the car into park and storm into the house, plopping on the couch. I stare at my digital clock, and my brain switches back on, reminding me why I was so high strung today.

It's been twelve years since my father's death. I look back now at all the foster homes I've been in, the people I've met, the different cities I've seen...

And frankly, I could give two shits less to revisit any of them. I've been a missing child for six years now, constantly struggling to make it on my own. My only possessions being my birth certificate, social security card, personal I.D., some clothes, and my father's leather jacket. To survive my first few years, I stole alot. I held up a few liquor stores. But I've changed since then.

Now that I'm old enough, at the ripe young age of twenty one, I work, and barely hold onto a shitty rental home in Port Huron, Michigan.

The urge to move again has struck me. And whenever I move, I leave everything. So I start a scan of my very few possessions. My small amount of clothes will go, obviously. My photos of my father and I. My gun case, harboring a Beretta 9mm, two boxes of ammunition, and three full clips.

I stop my mental list and begin throwing clothes into a beaten leather knapsack. I take only three pairs of jeans, four shirts, and the few undergarments that I could afford. I take all the hanging photos out of their frames, and put them into the photo album I had taken them out of. The last thing to go inside is my small gun case.

Latching the knapsack shut, I lift it onto my shoulder and go to the fuse box. I flip the main breaker to the off position, and take the house keys off my keyring, hamging them on the hook, next to the door.

I lock the back door, and shut it behind me, climbing back into my trusty, worn out Durango, and throwing my overstuffed bag into the passenger seat. Before I start my car, I take one last look at my home.

There was no memories had there. No sentiments left inside. No sense of pride or happiness. It was just another hole in the ground for me to hide in.

"Where are we off to now Danae?" I sigh to myself and pull a map of the country out of the middle counsel. Opening it up, I close my eyes and circle my finger across the map, counting to ten. I stop, and open my eyes. My finger has landed on central Nebraska.

"Nebraska it is then," I mutter, and start the car. As I drive out to the main road, I see clouds overhead, roiling black and tumbling over themselves. Little flickers of light appear in the folds, indicating thunder. I shudder in anticipation, going back to the last night my father was with me.

But sadly for the storm, I'm not going to be around long enough for it to torment me. I turn onto the highway headed South, and put the clouds behind me. Far behind me.


	3. Chapter 2: Scary Storms and Safe Havens

Chapter Two: Scary Storms and Safe Havens

Fourteen hours later, I've made it to central Nebraska, nearly an hour from my chosen destination of Broken Bow. The storm that was building ever so steadily back in Michigan chased me through three states, and by the time I hit the Nebraska state line, it was on top of me. The rain has been pelting my windshield heavily for what feels like days, and my tired bones quake as easily as the earth when the thunder roars.

My eyes are half open, barely seeing through the drowning windshield of my car. I yawn, and reach down to my thermos, taking a deep swallow of black coffee. I smack my cheeks gently, and crank my A/C up to high, trying my hardest to wake up. The drone of the beating rain has been lulling me to near sleep for hours, but I've fought it off with assistance from the occasional lightning strike and thunder clap.

I turn my radio on and up, blaring some rock station, and hoping for something hard and fast paced. I'm running out of ways to stay awake. A slow song by a band called The Pretty Reckless comes on, soothing and tame. I listen half heartedly. I love the song, really, but if I listen too carelessly, I'll end up wrapped around a telephone pole.

Seconds become minutes, and my eyes droop lower. My mind opens into a near dream state, and I'm suddenly remembering my home.

The small Floridian home was quaint, and bright. I would waste my summertime in the backyard, playing on the tire swing, picking flowers and making crowns from them, presenting them to Daddy with such pride. He'd always accept them, smiling at my youthful attempt at artistry. He even preserved one, framed it and set it on his desk in his office.

His office. The room he was murdered in. I remember that last night, the storm, and him letting me stay with him in the office until I fell asleep on his little lounge chair. When I woke, I was back in bed. But I woke to the sounds of screaming and crashing. I hid under my bed, clutching poor Mickey under my chin with what felt like the strength of a million powerful men. When all fell silent, I crept downstairs, this time ignoring the thunder and lightning cracks. When I entered his office, it was like a storm of it's own was set loose inside. The chair I had fallen asleep on was torn, turned upside down, with the innards hanging out of the deep gashes in it. Daddy's desk was overturned as well.

But what was underneath it was what caught my horrified gaze. A hand was jutting out from beneath the desk, clutching what used to be my framed flower crown. I rushed over, praying it wasn't Daddy, wishing it was some bad man that Daddy had caught. But my ptayers went against me. My father's body was twisted at odd angles, his chest, stomach, and neck shredded open, one of his legs ripped off completely. His face was what stuck with me. Frozen permanently in horror, his once lively, sage-like green eyes now glossed with the veil of death. It was a sight that ruined me as a human. My screams still come to me in my sleep, blended with his death howls.

Thunder claps, and suddenly I'm awake again. My panicked eyes catch sight of a figure in front of my car. My heart leaps into my throat, and I wrench the wheel to the left. My feet struggle to find the brakes, but it's too late.

"Oooh fuck!" I shriek, and feel my car careen downwards, and then up through a ditch. The Durango begins to roll.

My windshield smashes.

My arms go up to hide my face.

Tumble, tumble, tumbling...

And finally my car hits something, as does my head. And then I black out.

...

Hands are gripping me. I don't know where they came from. I don't care where they came from. I can't feel any pain aside from my head.

"You're gonna be okay," a small female voice says to me. I give a thank you, but it comes out a delirious groan. I feel my savior pull me out of the car and set me on the ground, and her hands release me. The rain is gently pattering on my face, making me more alert. I open my eyes slowly, and luckily can see clearly. The storm is nearly gone, it's remnants leaving a slow drizzle of rain. The early morning sky is still black with cloud coverage. I lean up, my neck showing signs of soreness. My eyes find what used to be my beloved Durango.

It leans precariously against a sturdy wooden pole. The roof is smashed inward on the drivers side, which is also missing the door. It's a miracle I wasn't thrown from the car, or crushed alive.

Hanging out the door from the waist down is my rescuer. She slithers out of the car with my knapsack in tow. When she sees me, a relieved look crosses her face.

"Oh, good! You're awake. Are you okay?" she asks, and comes to kneel beside me.

"I... I'm alright, I guess... My head and neck hurt like hell though... Who are you?" I mumble, sitting up finally.

"My name is Meg. I'm the one you almost hit. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, I was just trying to hitch a ride," the girl rambles, her soaked blonde hair falling in her face.

From the corner of my eye, I swear her eyes turned black, but when I turned to look her in the face, she smiled. Her eyes were normal.

"Well, nice to meet you Meg. I'm Danae. I'm also really sore. Is there any gas stations around here?"

"No gas stations, but there is a bar about half a mile up the road. It's closed, but the owners live there I think. Maybe you can use their phone?"

I nod, and shift to my knees, preparing to stand. Meg stands with me and hoists my bag, along with hers, onto her shoulder.

"Well, lets get going," I sigh, and hold my hand out for my bag. She hands it over, and we begin our trek to the bar.

We are silent for a long while, and I can feel the awkwardness building steadily to an uncomfortable state. Before long, I decide to break the silence.

"So, where are you from Meg?" I ask gently.

"All over. I travel a lot. What about you?"

"Pretty much the same. Been skipping my way through the country since I was fifteen."

"Oh wow! That's amazing! Was it hard?"

I snort in confirmation, and nod, my dripping hair slidding into my face.

"It sure as hell wasn't easy, I'll tell you that."

"Well you seem to be doing okay with getting around. At least you have a car!"

"HAD a car, you mean. Now it's a metallic pretzel."

Meg laughs a bit and pushes her hair off her brow.

"Yeah, good point. At least you're okay though."

I concur with her. A few yards away, I see a light. A bar sign hangs above the entrance.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse, huh? Looks cozy," I huff, and cross the road to the building. I notice the lack of footsteps behind me, and turn to look for Meg. She's standing stock still on the other side of the road, glaring at the bar with steely eyes.

"Aren't you coming?" I ask with an encouraging smile, she tears her eyes off the sign, and smiles apologetically.

"Nah, that's alright. I still have distance to cover."

"Oh... alright then. Well, it was nice to meet you, Meg. And thanks for saving my ass back there," I chuckle and nod in respect to her.

"You too," she says quickly, and with a wave, she starts down the road, into the dark twilight.

I turn back to the bar and walk up to the door. They're very clearly closed, but I'm in a state of emergency. I knock hard on the door, wincing as I notice my scraped knuckles. I wait, and listen for a voice or footsteps. But there's nothing. I knock again, using my better hand to pound harder.

And suddenly, I get my response. Just not the one I'd hoped for. I feel the barrel of a gun press into the back of my head.

A gruff woman's voice growls at me.

"If you don't want your brains to end up splattered all over my front door, you best state your business, or get the hell of my damn property."

She pumps the gun, not moving it from my head. And all I can do is laugh.

Hysterically.

Two death sentences in one night is enough for me.


	4. Chapter 3: The Roadhouse

"I'm not gonna ask you again! State your business!" the woman hollers, prodding the back of my head with the shotgun. I raise my hands slowly, and turn my head, hoping to get a glance of my captor.

"Don't even think about trying anything funny," she warns, the ever present gun barrel digging into my skull.

"I crashed my car a ways down the road. I'm just looking for some help," I say as calmly as possible, my hysterics being numbed by the pain in my head and neck. I must have whiplash, because it's pure agony to turn my head any which way.

She pauses for an uncertain moment, and then lowers her gun, stepping up next to me. My almost executioner is short, and able bodied. Her wavy brown hair is slightly tusseled, proving I had woken her up. Her eyes look me over carefully, and a guarded expression appears on her older, warm looking face. She knocks on the door.

"Jo, open up. She's good," the woman calls out, and the door swings open revealing another gun, a revolver of some kind, aimed at my chest. The weapon is held by a pretty girl who looks to be about my age, if not a year or two older. Her long blonde hair is in snarls, proving she'd probably been woken up quickly and roughly from a deep sleep.

"Go on in, and have a seat at the bar. I'll get you a drink. You look like you need it," the woman says, her hand against the small of my back, guiding me towards Jo.

The girl steps aside, and I am allowed entrance. The bar is just as cozy as I'd assumed, with wooden chairs and tables, a pool table in the back, and an old jukebox near it.

I plant myself on a bar stool and place my bag on the seat to my right. The woman walks around the bar and picks up an unmarked bottle, pouring me a hefty shot of clear liquid.

"My name's Ellen, by the way. This is my daughter, Jo. We own this bar. What's your name kid?" She asks, setting the glass down on a coaster between my hands.

"I'm Danae. Danae Phillips," I say quietly, and take the glass. I hear the air in the room grow still, as if the women are holding their breath, anticipating a hold up or some other kind of violent reaction. I lift the glass to my lips and tip it back, downing the liquor in one swallow. It tastes like slightly watered down vodka, the burn barely noticeable in my throat. I set the glass down and look up at Ellen. Her face goes quickly from tensed, to relieved, which baffles me. I don't understand why she would be tense after allowing me in and pouring me a drink, but whatever reason she has must be good enough in her mind.

"So what brings you out this way?" Jo inquires, stifling a yawn as she slides onto the bar stool on my left. The revolver is laid on the bar casually, pointed away from the three of us. 'Thank God. No more guns getting aimed at anyone,' I think, willing my heartbeat to slow down.

"Just looking for a new place to make roots. I drove here from east Michigan."

"Really? That's a hell of a drive. Nearly fourteen hours, right?"

"Yeah. It's also the reason I crashed. Banged my head up pretty good, got a little whiplash, scrapes and bumps galore... But I'm still in one piece."

Ellen puts the unmarked bottle back under the bar, and grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf.

"You look and sound like you could use something a bit stronger," she chuckles lightly, and pours another full shot. I throw caution to the wind and slam the harsh whiskey, sighing as I set the glass back down.

"So where were you headed?" Jo presses on with the questions. I don't really mind, because she's no longer planning on opening a hole in my chest with a gun.

"The plan was to get into Broken Bow. Look for a new job and a place to rent. But now, it's looking more like I'll be hobo-ing my way there now," I mutter with a cynical grin. Ellen and Jo exchange glances, the daughter giving a nod to her mother.

Ellen clears her throat and pours a second shot of the liquid painkiller, then asks, "You need a place to stay tonight honey? There's not a hotel for miles in any direction. And we can put you up on the couch for the night, if you want."

I look between the two of them, searching for any signs of secrecy or negativity. But all I find is warm and welcoming, and very tired smiles.

"I... I don't know. I don't want to be a nuisance to you guys."

"Oh nonsense! We wouldn't have asked if it were trouble," Jo laughs and pats me on the shoulder.

I finish my drink, and push the glass to Ellen, who takes it to the sink and washes it quickly.

"And if we didn't trust you, we probably would've shot you out there. So no worries, you're in good hands," Ellen reassures, smiling back at me over her shoulder.

"You can hop in the shower if you want. Clean up those wounds. And when you get up tomorrow, we'll help you out with your car."

"Thank you both. This is really kind of you," I mutter sheepishly, astonished at their hospitality.

Jo rests her hand softly on my shoulder, and says, "It's part of being good people. Decent human beings. Plus, we did hold you at gunpoint for a while there, so it's the least we can do."

I grin, and slip off the barstool, hoisting my bag up with a groan. My body finally registered all the commotion and trauma it had been through. My bones feel shaky and brittle, as if a simple push could shatter me.

"Just go through there, behind the bar. Bathroom will be down the hall from the living room, first door on he right. And walk quietly. Ash is still asleep," Ellen directs, pointing behind her after she dries my shot glass and puts it away. I nod, and tread lightly in my boots, minimizing the click of the thick heels.

I follow her directions and end up in the living room, just as she told me. It's small, proving the bar takes up most of the building's space. The walls are wallpapered with small floral designs, white daisies over a warm tan background. A comfy looking couch rests against the east wall, it's soft brown hue beckoning me to sleep. I set my bag down and strip my father's jacket off, laying it over the arm of the couch carefully.

The west wall held the television, with a built-in DVD player. Movies lined the shelves underneath it. And the north wall held a wide window, the long vertical blinds slightly cracked, revealing dawn's waking light. I creep down the hall, and slip into the bathroom, bag in tow. The bathroom is painted a light blue, and tiled in white. It's kept quite clean, so I make an immediate point to slip my boots off now, before I track more mud through the place. Nothing is more upsetting than a messy guest, in my opinion.

I strip down, placing my still damp clothing next to my bag and climb into the shower, letting the steam and heat wash over my aching body.

The day's events have definitely taken a turn for the better, considering my nearly fatal incident. Or rather, incidents.

As I check my body over, I notice the extent of my bodily damages. My collarbone carries a large bruise, that stretches across my chest, clearly from the seatbelt straining to hold me in. My head has a knot building in my hairline, a scab beginning to form. My left arm is bruised as well, possibly from being slammed into the door so many times. But overall, I'm alive, and in one piece.

If it hadn't been for Meg, I could very well still be in my car, stuck there until someone found me. But even then, if it hadn't been for Meg, I wouldn't have crashed either, right?

I linger on the thought of my mysterious rescuer. Where was she going? What was with the dirty look she threw at the bar? And why didn't she want to stay, at least long enough to make sure I was okay?

"Well, it doesn't matter now. She's long gone, and I'll probably never see her again," I sigh to myself.

After washing up, I turn the shower off, and dress in my comfy pajama bottoms and beat up Led Zeppelin shirt, then gather my things and tiptoe back to the living room. A quilt and pillow were laid on the couch while I was showering. It's almost heartwarming, knowing they thought to do such a thing before they went to bed themselves. I prop the pillow up and crawl onto the couch, covering up with the quilt. It's warm, and smells like hazelnut. My favorite smell.

And before I can begin to count sheep, I'm drifting into a sleep like death, empty of dreams, and devoid of motion.

I blame the whiskey.

Ellen POV

I saunter over to the table I stood my shotgun up against, and pick up the heavy weapon, taking it back to it's hidden rack beneath the bar. As I place the gun, I hear a muffled sigh from Jo. She has her head down on the bar, and shakes it, as if in denial.

"What are we doing, Mom?" she mumbles, and lifts her head, looking at me with the saddest set of sleep deprived eyes I've ever seen on my daughter's face.

"Getting ready to go back to bed?" I guess, letting my carefree sarcasm get the best of me. I know exactly what she means. We just let a stranger into our home. We offered her to sleep here. And we even gave her a few free drinks. That violates all of our rules, pretty much.

"Oh please. You know what I mean. Why did we just let a strange chick into our bar without testing her?" Jo quips, turning to follow me with a glare as I walk to the front door and lock it.

"As I recall, you didn't say no. And we did test her. She swallowed that holy water and vodka shot like it was nothing. And she even made it across the devil's trap we have hidden under the rug in the hallway. So tell me why we shouldn't trust her?"

"Because Mom! She could be a thief! Or a psycho! Or a rapist, for all we know! That's why!"

"...I gotta tell ya Jo, you still have the imagination of a nine year old. She's just a normal runaway girl, trying her hand at making in this shit-hole of a planet. Just like us. So relax. She'll be on her way out tomorrow."

Jo snorts in disbelief, rolling her eyes. "Yeah. And when she's about to go, you'll offer her a job here, and the camper out back."

I shoot her a glance that would melt steel, to which she responds by shaking her head, running a hand through her tangled blonde mane.

"I'm not about to let an innocent girl fend for herself in the middle of nowhere. So cut the attitude, and lets get to bed, okay?" I say levelly, my tired throat croaking the words out.

The word "whatever" falls out of my daughter's mouth as she saunters to the hallway. I hate that word. It's like her verbal way of slapping me in the face. I let it roll off my shoulders and follow Jo to the hallway.

Danae's bag lays against the couch, her oversized leather jacket draped over it. How can a girl so young be travelling across the country with so little? Where's her family? Does she even HAVE family?

My maternal instincts tell me to help her the best I can. But my hunter instincts say to leave her be.

To Hell with being a hunter. I'm a mother first.

I slip into my room and pull the quilt my mother knitted for Jo's birth off my bed, along with a pillow. I lay them out on the couch, and smirk sleepily. There's no point in being a bad hostess. Nor is there a point in being a heartless bitch either.

I pad into my small bedroom and shut the door behind me as softly as I can. As I curl into bed, I silently make up my mind. If she's as pleasant as she was tonight, and she isn't a loon, I'll ask her to stay. Because why the Hell not? I feel my breathing even out, and drift into my long overdue slumber.


End file.
